


Same Old Blues

by dizzzylu



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Reality, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 12:17:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/597658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzzylu/pseuds/dizzzylu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything new is old again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Same Old Blues

**Author's Note:**

  * For [etcetera_kit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/etcetera_kit/gifts).



> Thanks to K for helping me come up with the idea. Thanks to I and B for the beta. I tweaked it after they go their hands on it, so any remaining mistakes are my own. 
> 
> Merry Christmas, etcetera_kit! I hope you like it! Sorry there's no porn :(

The first time Dean meets Mr. Adler's assistant is interview day.

It's hard not to stare at him, surrounded as Dean is by nervous newbies that stink of fear and sweat, looking like they're about to walk the plank. The guy stands out like a beacon with his dark, messy hair and bright blue eyes. The shadow of his stubble does interesting things for his jaw, and his scrunched up nose every time he leans in to peer closer at his computer is. . . _pleasing_.

Below the neck, though, is quite another story, with his too-big oxford and wrinkled pants. His tie loosened and slightly askew. His hands hover over the keyboard, fingers twitching like they don't belong -- either to this particular body or at a computer, Dean isn't sure which.

They don't say anything to each other until it's Dean's turn to go in, and Dean warms at the deep rumble of, "Mr. Smith? Mr. Adler will see you now." It feels like the first lick of bourbon, smooth and smoke-spicy.

Dean wouldn't mind hearing more of it.

: : :

They don't see each other again until almost two weeks later, and Adler's assistant looks _wrecked_. It makes sense, of course, considering he's slinking out of Mr. Adler's office, having just gotten a beat down loud enough for Dean to hear the moment he stepped off the elevator.

"He's expecting you," Adler's assistant says with a wave, his voice rougher and darker than Dean remembers. It makes Dean stop in front of the desk, knock his knuckles on the glossy wood.

"All execs are assholes," Dean says, lips quirking up in a half grin. "Even me."

Adler's assistant flicks him a grateful sort of look, but doesn't say anything more. Behind him, Adler is opening his office door, looking red in the face, still. Dean doesn't make him wait.

: : :

It's the same awkward, uncomfortable pattern for the next three days.

On one hand, Dean finally learns the assistant's name: Castiel. On the other hand, Dean's sure he heard it from his own office, twelve floors away.

The good news is, Castiel seems to be learning how to take it better. Or, at the very least, not let it get to him. It's not easy, Dean knows, taking that kind of shit from people who think they're better than you, who could ruin your life by firing you and not even care. The sad fact is, every assistant has to deal with one of those bosses at least once in their climb up the professional ladder. Sometimes more than once.

The thing about Castiel that confuses Dean, though, is what a diligent employee he seems to be. From the way Adler screams at him, Dean would expect, at the very least, a messy desk with files strewn everywhere. Maybe Castiel playing Spider Solitaire instead of working. 

Castiel looks to be the opposite, though. His desk is neat, he answers Adler's calls on the first ring, he is unfailingly polite and professional, and Dean has never once seen him dicking around the water cooler or break room, getting as much time away from Adler as possible. 

In essence, Castiel appears to be the model assistant with the patience of Job. It's a shame Adler doesn't to appreciate what he has.

: : :

"You're fitting in perfectly here at Sandover, Smith, but I've got some bad news."

Dean's stomach swoops low and his smile falters. "I'm sorry to hear that," he manages to respond, his hand tightening around the arm of his chair.

Adler takes Dean in and abruptly softens. "Oh no, nothing like that," he says around a chuckle. "We just need you to take over some of our bigger accounts sooner than we'd hoped. We're confident you can handle them, but a month grace period is our usual policy."

Dean laughs, relieved, and shakes his head. "I don't mind, sir. I look forward to the opportunity to prove myself."

Adler claps his hands as he stands. "Excellent! I'll just have my assistant bring down the files." His attention drops to a stack of folders on his desk and he shuffles through them, muttering darkly about Castiel and his incompetence.

Dean winces and reaches a hand out. "I can take them sir. It's not a problem."

"Oh no, these aren't the files." Adler gestures to a stack of banker's boxes, piled four high, in a long, neat row. " _Those_ are the files."

"Oh," Dean says around a thick swallow. "Well I can take a couple on my way back down."

He steps toward them, but Adler cuts him off with a too firm grip on Dean's shoulder. "That's really not necessary," Adler says, his voice frosty. "I mean, isn't that what borderline incompetent personal assistants are for?" He's smiling as he says it, but his eyes are flat and dark. Intense in a way that makes the hair on Dean's arms stand on end.

"Yeah. Yup. Absolutely." Dean says, nodding. He doesn't agree, _at all_ , but it feels like the only way he's getting out of this office is if he plays along.

"Good!" Adler chirps. "Then Castiel can get started with that and you can get started with securing your future here at Sandover." Adler smacks Dean on the back, hard enough to startle him forward a step, and steers him toward the door, where Adler barks Castiel's name. Dean feels a pang of guilt at the way Castiel jumps out of his chair and snaps to attention. He has to give Castiel credit, though. Another person in this position would cave under all the pressure and stress.

Castiel, on the other hand, seems determined to stick it out, to make himself worthy of his position within the company. It's an admirable attitude, if possibly a little self-destructive.

Before Adler can berate Castiel for anything else, Dean takes his leave, hoping his pace doesn't look too much like he's running away.

: : :

Half an hour later, Castiel finally shows up at Dean's door, sweat-damp hair sticking to his temples, with only one box in his hands. "Where do you want these?" he asks, rough and a little breathless.

"What the hell?!" Dean says without thinking, then bites his tongue at Castiel's flinch. "Sorry, sorry. Over there is fine." He waves at the one empty corner of his office. "There are at least twenty boxes to bring down. He didn't give you a cart?!"

Castiel flushes but doesn't look ashamed. "No cart, no elevator. He says it's to teach me follow-through and appreciation. Of what, I don't know." His shrug is like a ripple, one smooth movement that starts with his shoulders and works its way down through his arms and hands and fingers. It's an unusual sort of gesture, but Dean thinks he's starting to realize Castiel's an unusual sort of guy. As if his name wasn't enough of an indication.

"I honestly don't know how you put up with this shit," Dean says honestly. He rises from his desk and approaches the door. "C'mon," he says with a tilt of his head. "You're not doing this all by yourself."

Castiel reaches for Dean's wrist and gives it a squeeze. "Twelve older brothers and sisters," he says. "And yes, I am."

: : :

In the end, it takes Castiel over two hours to bring all the boxes down. All _twenty-eight_ of them. Dean has to give him credit, though. Castiel barely looks like he broke a sweat, let alone climbed twelve flights of stairs twenty-eight times.

Dean thinks it might have something to do with the bottles of water he kept fetching from his floor's breakroom.

It's dark outside as Castiel comes in with the last of the boxes, an hour past Dean's normal quitting time. He could've left, Dean knows, Castiel had even told him to, but it had felt wrong, worse than just sitting there while Castiel lugged in box after box after box.

"Did Adler go home?" Dean asks Castiel, who's finally showing some fatigue in the way he's slumped over himself in one of the two club chairs, elbows propped on his knees, head in his hands.

"He left about halfway through."

Dean thinks about that for a minute, then asks, "So why didn't you--"

"Security cameras. He would check."

"Oh. Right."

There's an uncomfortable silence where Castiel doesn't move and Dean isn't sure what else to say. He feels bad, but doesn't really know Castiel -- and, by extension, his relationship with Adler -- well enough to attempt to commiserate. 

Castiel solves the problem by unfolding himself from the chair and standing up tall, but with that slight hunch to his shoulders that suggests he's got an invisible two ton weight strapped to his back.

"I need to get going," he says. "Shut my computer down and lock up Mr. Adler's office." He offers Dean a small, grateful smile. "Thank you for the water."

"Wait!" Dean says, making Castiel freeze in the doorway mid-step. "Come back when you're done? Please?"

Castiel turns to study Dean, then nods.

"And for god's sake, take the _elevator_. I'm exhausted just looking at you."

Castiel's mouth tilts into a half smile and he gives Dean a shrewd, knowing look. "Just between you and me? I prefer the stairs."

Dean laughs at Castiel's retreating back.

: : :

Dean still isn't sure why he did it, why he asked Castiel to come back _and_ why he ran down to the cafeteria right after Castiel left. Now that Dean's there, confronted with a dozen different food choices, he finds himself panicking. Wondering if Castiel is a vegan or lactose intolerant or Jewish or on that gluten-free diet that's all the rage.

"Fuck," Dean spits out. "I bet he's one of those liquid dieters."

He wants to study the menu some more, but a quick check of his watch tells him it's been fifteen minutes already, and he has no idea if Castiel will bother to wait for Dean if he takes too much longer.

In the end, he orders two bacon cheeseburgers -- extra bacon, hold the onions -- one order of curly fries, one order of pita crisps, and two orders of carrot and celery sticks, figuring if Castiel doesn't want his burger, Dean can eat it.

After a detour in the break room for more water and a healthy variety of condiments, Dean has to wrestle down his surprise at finding Castiel waiting for him after all.

Something loosens in Dean's chest, and he greets Castiel with a warm grin, tips his head toward the small conference table in the corner. Castiel helps him with the trays, divvying up the fries and chips and veggies even after Dean insists the fries were only for Castiel. Still, Dean tries to stop Castiel, one hand blocking his tray, the other cuffed around Castiel's wrist where the skin is soft and warm. Castiel's pulse is heavy under Dean's thumb, steady. Dean strokes the skin there once, letting go only after Castiel tries to sit down. He has to give a slight tug to draw Dean's attention.

"Sorry," Dean murmurs, feeling sheepish and silly. Castiel doesn't smile, doesn't tell Dean it's okay, but he doesn't look put off, either. Neither disgusted nor uncomfortable. He simply looks like Castiel, with his messy hair and too-big clothes, that weird droop to his shoulders.

While Dean loosens his tie and strips it off to toss onto his desk, he watches Castiel unbutton his shirt, undo the cuffs at his wrist, and roll them up over lightly muscled forearms. His fingers are long and slim, nimble with the excess material, and Dean finds himself echoing the action without even thinking about it. He has to look away, though, from the large expanse of skin. With the sweat pricking up on his nape, the skin under his nose and at his temples, Dean feels like he's part of some Victorian strip tease. Next thing he knows, he'll be getting all hot and bothered over an innocent flash of ankle.

At least Castiel seems oblivious, too busy tucking a napkin into his collar to notice Dean silently berating himself.

After their clothes are seen to, as best they can be, it's a flurry of condiments, a mess of squirts that still make Dean giggle on the inside. Dean takes note of Castiel's choice -- more mayo than ketchup, with two slices of bacon set well away from the carnage -- while he applies his standard ketchup-mustard-mayo-ketchup combo.

Once he's done, Dean leans in to take the first juicy mouthful of beefy goodness, but his gaze is drawn up to the quiet way Castiel is eating his burger with neat, careful bites. Even going so far as to put everything down while he chews, his face thoughtful.

"Is it good?" Dean asks, because he feels like he should. It's not like he gave Castiel a choice, after all. "You're not a vegan, are you?"

"No Mr. Smith, I'm not a vegan." He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. The sky is blue, grass is green, of course Castiel isn't a vegan. But it's tempered by his eyes, the hint of a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. "This is delicious, thank you."

The way he says it, so earnest and forthright, has Dean blushing. "You deserve it," Dean says, nodding at the files. "Someone's gotta make sure you're keeping up your strength." He takes a bite of his burger, then, large enough to make his cheeks puff out, and he should be embarrassed, except for how he's sure he would've been even more embarrassed had he let his mouth run off.

They eat their burgers in relatively comfortable silence, once Dean starts taking more manageable bites. The only weird thing about it is how it feels like they're locked in an epic battle of 'I'm watching you, but I don't want you to _know_ I'm watching you.' Or maybe it's just Dean; Castiel seems perfectly content whenever Dean chances a glance at his face. Dean, on the other hand, is the one acting guilty every time Castiel catches Dean staring at his Adam's apple, the slick pink flicker of his tongue, the sooty fan of his eyelashes.

It isn't until they dig into their fries and chips and vegetables that Dean settles, helped along by Castiel's perfunctory questioning -- where Castiel learns that Dean has a younger sister, that he graduated top of his class at Stanford. In return, Dean hears about Castiel's trials as the baby of a family of fifteen (each name weirder than the next. Remiel? Really?!), and how he disappointed his parents by studying for a degree in anthropology.

Dean laughs, shaking his head. "Do I even want to know how you went from anthro to this?"

"It was either work here or starve to death."

Dean gapes. "I don't-- your family wouldn't have helped you?"

"All of us were raised to be self-sufficient."

"Jesus," Dean sighs. "I was, too, but if it came down to that? I know my parents wouldn't hesitate."

That Castiel seems resigned to his lot in life breaks Dean's heart a little, and he pushes the rest of his fries toward Castiel, too sick to his stomach to eat anymore.

There isn't much talking after that, Dean too preoccupied with the good food he just ate, the thoughts swirling in his head, and the rhythmic motion of Castiel's eating. It isn't until Castiel has mostly cleaned up that Dean snaps out of it, scrambling to catch up.

They walk to the elevators together, Castiel in his too-big trench coat, Dean checking his Blackberry for tomorrow's schedule. They're silent while they wait, standing side by side. Every so often, Castiel sways forward and back, drawing Dean's attention to where their elbows knock together.

The elevator arrives eventually, and even though it's only the two of them in the large car, they remain side by side, leaning against the back wall.

"Thanks again," Castiel says.

It draws Dean out of his daze and he looks over to find dark blue eyes watching him. Cataloging. Assessing.

"Like I said," Dean starts, his voice sandpaper rough. He tugs at Castiel's lapel, smooths a palm over one baggy shoulder. "You seem like you need someone looking out for you. And now I know that you do. So." Dean swallows, unsure how to continue.

"I _can_ take care of myself Dean. I've been doing it for a while." Castiel sounds exasperated. Like he's had to say that a thousand times before.

"I know you can, I just--"

The elevator doors interrupt Dean, which he decides is for the best since he has no idea how to finish that sentence.

Castiel pauses, though. Blinks at Dean with wide eyes. The openness of it tugs at Dean's gut, and he finds himself swaying into Castiel's personal space, hands clutched tight to the strap of his attaché case. Castiel smells like the food they just ate, greasy and tangy, but underneath that is more. Earth and fire and the taste of ozone on Dean's tongue. He licks his lips.

"Have we met before?" Castiel asks, voice dark and low. Dean is surprised he can feel the puff of Castiel's breath on his face, and he opens his eyes -- when had he closed them? -- to see Castiel close. Close enough so their noses almost bump together.

It isn't anything for Dean to adjust. For him to turn his face and tilt his head. To press his lips to Castiel's, soft and warm. Dean tells himself he only wants to know if they're as inviting as they look. That it'll only last a minute.

They are. It doesn't.

It's Castiel's fault, really. The pleased little noise he makes low in his throat. The lazy sweep of his lashes that reveals dark, liquid eyes. The hint of stubble that demands the heat of Dean's palm.

Dean's fingers slot neatly underneath Castiel's ear, his thumb stroking over the swell of Castiel's cheek. The skin there is surprisingly smooth, tanned and flawless. Dean rests his thumb there and uses a little pressure, guiding Castiel's head with only the pressure from the pads of his fingers.

The second kiss is more. Deeper, warmer. Castiel pushing up against Dean like he wants to fuse them together. His hand is tight around Dean's wrist and he growls, low, once. A sound that arrows straight to Dean's groin. The heat of it makes Dean gasp and Castiel presses his advantage, tongue licking into Dean's mouth, slick and wicked.

They kiss until they can't breathe, and even then it's Dean who pulls away first, surprised to find his other hand fisted in the folds of Castiel's trench. While he catches his breath, he takes Castiel in; the flush high on his cheeks, hair messier than ever, chest heaving in time with Dean's. 

Dean has a sudden flash, then, of Castiel looking like this, but for a completely different reason. A startling vision of a farmhouse, a ferocious black guy fighting a skinny old white man. A pretty redhead. Another guy, freakishly tall, lots of hair.

It's there and gone in an instant, and like a wisp of smoke, Dean struggles to retain the image, but all he can see is Castiel. All he can feel is soft hair under his fingers. It's a little bit and not at all like déjà vu.

"Dean?" Castiel says, low and quiet. His hand is on Dean's waist, gripping tight.

Dean blinks, several times, and manages a lazy smile. "I'm good," he says, not sure if he means it. Up to this point, the night has been nice. Fun, even. Better than trying to score in some bar surrounded by dozens of writhing bodies, every one of them trying to get a piece of him.

Not that Dean's entirely sure he's been trying to score in the first place.

Now, though, Dean feels an odd weight settle in his gut. Like he's missing crucial information. He sees Castiel in front of him, an arm's length away now, and feels like an ant in front of an elephant, small and insignificant.

Castiel's free hand circles Dean's wrist. "Dean, you're trembling."

Dean looks down, nods and chuckles. It sounds wrong, coming out of him, and he fists his hands to try to ground himself. "Ever get the feeling you're missing all the information?"

"No." Castiel says it so emphatically, Dean can't help but laugh. This time it sounds better, real and honest.

Dean lets Castiel lead him from the elevator, grateful that it's late and there appears to be no one left in the building. Castiel holds his wrist all the way to the front doors, where he stops and turns and gives Dean an inscrutable look. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Dean nods. "I guess it's been awhile." Which is a lie, but it sound less crazy than _I think I might've had a vision of you kicking ass and taking names_.

To Castiel's credit, he doesn't seem to be buying it. Dean distracts him with a series of slow, sucking kisses, a sharp tug on Castiel's lower lip.

Castiel looks pleasantly buzzed when Dean pulls away, eyes dark and lids heavy. His lips are pink and wet and lovely; Dean drags his thumb over the swell of them.

"We should do this again sometime," Dean says, sounding rough and proud.

Castiel responds immediately, his gravely "Yes, please" sounding far too grave for the situation. His hand is still wrapped around Dean's wrist and he squeezes once, thumb digging into Dean's pulse.

"Maybe somewhere not work-related?"

Cas nods. "That would be nice."

"How about this Friday?"

"That would be-- Oh." Castiel's face falls. "It's my sister's birthday."

"Next Friday, then."

"Yes, absolutely."

Dean tugs on Castiel's shirt, leans in for another quick kiss. "Don't wear this."

"I won't."

Dean can't stop grinning as they walk to their cars. Castiel is smiling, too, small and sweet.

They kiss a little more in the parking lot, Dean pinned to the side of his shiny Toyota. His hands roam over Castiel's body and Dean likes what he maps out; slimly defined arms and broad shoulders, a narrow waist and hips that are easy to hold onto. The thigh Castiel slips between Dean's is thick and hard. Solid. Dean has a hard time keeping himself from grinding down on it.

"I should go," Castiel says eventually, not looking at all like he wants to. A part of Dean doesn't want him to, either, but rubbing off on each other in the company parking lot really isn't an option.

"Yeah," Dean agrees. "I need to get started on these numbers. Do you want to--?" He gestures at his car, brows arched and hopeful.

"No, I. I have an appointment." At least Castiel looks sorry about it.

Dean nods. Says, "So next Friday then?"

"Yes," Castiel nods. "Next Friday."

"Okay. Okay, good." Dean feels weird. Goofy. Like he's eighteen again, asking out Rhonda Hurley for the first time. There's a heat in his cheeks and he ducks his head to hide his wide grin. Slips into the car before he does something stupid.

"See you later, Cas."

Castiel stills, his hand holding his key fob in mid-air. "Cas?"

Dean blushes deeper, shrugging his shoulder. "Fits you better. Castiel is too. . . something. Formal, rigid. I don't know." He shakes his head. "Is that okay?"

"Yes, that's. That's good."

Dean gusts out a sigh, shoots Cas a wide grin. Watches the rear view mirror until he turns out of the parking lot.

: : :

There is no date on Friday.

: : :

The first few days are a little difficult, trying to fit back into the real world after having another thirty-odd years of memories shoehorned into your head. On top of the thirty he's accumulated for real, plus the extra forty from hell, Dean wonders if there's any room left in his head at all. It doesn't feel like it. Mostly, it all feels like ragged, open nerves rubbing up against each other, sparking white hot and wrong.

At least Cas and Sam look like they feel the same way; Sam more broody and emo than usual, Cas respecting personal space for the first time ever. Makes it easy for Dean to slip away to the local bar or liquor store.

They're somewhere south of Muncie when Cas finally breaks pattern. Dean's parked near a lake, where the light pollution is minimal, staring out at the stars. One second, he's alone with his mid-grade buzz, and the next, Cas is sitting next to him on the hood of the Impala, wings settling with a quiet rustle. 

"Good to see you, Cas," Dean says, proud of himself for not slurring the words.

"Dean," Cas says, stoic as ever.

Dean doesn't bother to look at him. He already knows Cas is over his little venture into La La Land just by how little space there is between them. He tries to raise his bottle for another healthy swallow, but Cas plucks it out of his hands and Dean's reflexes are too dulled to react accordingly. 

"S'ok," he says with a wave of his hand. "I was done with that anyway."

Cas studies the label, then takes his own generous share, downing what Dean estimates to be about half the bottle in one breath. "I never understood what humans see in this," Cas says, handing the bottle back. "It doesn't taste good and it provides no nutritional value. It's a waste of time and money."

"Makes things easier to forget."

"Perhaps," Cas says. "But I'm fairly certain that defeats Zacariah's lesson."

"Fuck Zacariah," Dean spits out, tossing the bottle at the lake. It falls just short of the water and doesn't even have the decency to shatter on impact. "Fuck him," Dean says again, angry and tired.

"Dean--"

Dean snarls at Cas, poking a finger at his shoulder. "Do not defend him."

Cas nods, his mouth a thin, firm line.

They sit in silence together for a long while, Dean with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, Cas with his arms crossed. It's good and it isn't, comfortable but also stifling. Like Cas is lulling Dean into a false sense of security, waiting to spring a trap or mission on Dean once he's too tired to resist.

Cas is a sneaky bastard like that.

He never does, though. He sits with Dean all night, silent and still in a way only Cas can pull off. It isn't until night bleeds into day that he breaks.

"You remembered me, didn't you?" Cas asks.

"Of course I did, Cas. We all remember what happened."

"In the elevator," Cas clarifies. "You remembered something. You looked like you'd seen a ghost."

"Oh. That. Yes, I-- yes." Dean curls in on himself, watching Cas from the corner of his eye.

"What did you see?"

Against his better judgement, Dean closes his eyes and lets himself go back to that moment; Cas a warm presence in front of Dean, his damned blue eyes and kiss-bruised lips. The sharp tug Dean had felt in his chest, at the flash of memory he'd had.

"The fight over Anna's grace," Dean says, his voice jagged around the edges. He doesn't open his eyes, but he can feel Cas in front of him, buffeting the breeze. He bleeds warmth, still, but in a different way. It makes the air around them buzz, powerful and familiar, and Dean finds himself wanting to lean into it. Wanting to rest his forehead in the crook of Cas' neck and just breathe. It's a moment of weakness Dean can't allow himself to have, but knowing that doesn't make him want it any less.

Instead, he palms Cas' cheek, thumb pressed to the corner of Cas' mouth, and kisses him. It's nothing more than a soft press of lips to lips. Absurdly tame compared to what they shared before, but better now because it's real. It's _them_. 

Cas sighs and instinct has Dean licking into it, putting everything he has into it, because if it felt good then, it'll be even better now. Two people with a shared fucked-up history trying to start something new. Something better.

Cas doesn't move like he did then, doesn't know how to fit himself against Dean, doesn't understand that making noises can be a good thing. But as Dean pulls back to take a breath, he's pinned by dark blue eyes and he knows: Cas can learn. 

Dean will teach him.


End file.
